Twisted
by errandofmercy
Summary: Albus is not a god. But sometimes he forgets.


Title: Twisted

Author: Errandofmercy

Rating: MA

Pairing: AD/SS

Disclaimer: Bow down to the great Rowling. I am an unworthy worm :p

Summary: Albus is not a god. But sometimes he forgets.

They take their coffee in the Headmaster's sitting room, warm currents of summer air sighing in through the open stained-glass windows. The breeze rustles the resplendent ochre curtains and flips through the weathered pages of a book left open on the sill. Beyond the stained glass's leaden panes of color, the sky is clear as polished amethyst, glistening with countless points of starlight. The heavy warmth of the air seems to squeeze the world, pressing upon every surface and drawing swells of perspiration from the shadows of the flesh. It clings like a lascivious thought; utterly intractable.

There is little discussion of the evening's plans as the two of them pore over the closing year's last scraps of parchment; Albus chuckles at the occasional grammatical bungle in his paperwork, while Severus shakes his head in consternation and shares only the worst of his last stack of essays. For the Potions Master, marking is a task best accomplished here, where the Headmaster's gentle apologia can offset his burning desire for punitively accurate grades. Albus reminds him that at least some of the students must pass, quality of work notwithstanding.

And the quiet companionship of the sitting room often portends further collaboration of an entirely different sort.

The signals are never the same, though there are a few trademark behaviours that Severus has learned to look out for. A subtle re-crossing of his long legs beneath lavender robes, a lingering glance when Severus appears to be absorbed in his work, a gentle brush of his hand to get a better look at that essay - just as he does everything, Albus asks without asking. Severus will never speak up, he has promised himself this. Though the Headmaster knows full well the intensity of his desire, the constancy of his willingness, he cannot bear to utter it himself. Tonight, Albus drains the last of his flagon with a contraction of his long, slender throat and drops it resolutely on the table like a gavel with a sigh of false contentment. Severus feigns surprise and meets his aquamarine gaze, bright and glittering as gemstones. What burns there is not really a question, but a summons;_ I am ready. Come._

He reacts, as he must do, first with slight abashment, then a touch of conspiratorial humor. The parchments file themselves away and he rises from his place at the table. He may fall to his knees in that very spot, or stand behind the Headmaster and knead the wizard's tall, stately shoulders until he is drawn closer. He may take an awkward seat on the arm of the chair, or lean in and allow the Headmaster to dip his gnarled fingers into the few ingresses to the flesh beneath his robes. He will be kissed, sometimes tenderly, sometimes roughly. Whatever happens, he will respond in kind.

Is it pathetic that the glimmer of lust in those ice-blue eyes is all it takes to woo him? Is it, in fact, quite depraved that he participates willingly in such a questionable liaison? Severus has tried to reason, but he now considers analysis of the matter a fruitless pursuit. When Albus' hands are upon him, when that vast, brilliant mind is aflame with desire for him only, quite simply, nothing else exists.

Albus rises to meet his approach. His hands reach out and take Severus' own, nearly covering them as his arms are guided to encircle Albus' slender waist. Severus presses his nose into the place where the Headmaster's neck meets his shoulder, draped in soft velvet and rich with his scent. He inhales the odors of perspiration, skin and honeyed soap as Albus cradles the back of his head, stroking downward from the nape of his neck to the swell of his hips. He can barely feel the contact through his robes, but even the suggestion of such an intimate touch is enough to make blood rush to his loins. As he stands stock-still, quietly panting, Albus lifts the hem of his frock and his fingers toy with the waistband of his trousers, undeterred by the layers of fabric that thwart them. Despite his efforts to remain still, Severus feels his hands twitch with longing. Suddenly, the Headmaster pulls back, gently lifting Severus' chin so that their eyes meet. The Potions Master's face is a blank slate, but his dark eyes are clouded with lust.

Wordlessly their mouths collide in a fierce kiss, moist and sharp with the insistence of teeth. Though it would not be his inclination, it is not an unpleasant sensation to feel the Headmaster's tongue press at the back of his throat, or to let his lips be chewed to roughness. The taste of dissolved coffee is no treat, either, but the intensity of Albus' affections more than compensates for such a minor fuss. He does his best to reciprocate, eliciting a growl of approval from his benefactor. With a shimmer of magical intent, Albus undoes the streak of buttons that bisect his torso, his hands roaming over the flesh-warm fabric of his undershirt. They break apart and Severus obediently sheds his outer garment and lays it neatly on the chair. He can feel the scrape of his nipples on the rough fabric as the Headmaster takes hold of his belt and whips it away in one smooth motion. His trousers sag embarrassingly without it - he has not eaten well these last months - and he is instantly overcome with shame for such a repellant display. If Albus notices, however, he betrays nothing. He merely takes hold of Severus' hand and, murmuring a command veiled in the language of an entreaty, leads him upstairs.

Severus follows, unquestioningly. So it is at each of their improbable trysts. He never turns away, for he cannot bear the thought of losing Albus' favor. Albus chooses his occasion and Severus complies. He also accepts the hindrances of lying with Albus - the disappointment of being left half-finished for a Ministry caller or -Merlin forbid- unexpected student, the vexation of constant secrecy, the frailties of old age. His pleasure is often incomplete, imperfect, sometimes altogether absent. Yet he returns, disregarding reason and propriety, for that unspeakable thing that only Albus can provide.

After a brief and intense union, Severus rights himself and curls his body around Albus like a snake seeking warmth. He can still feel the phantom pressure of the Headmaster within him, making his insides contract long after his own moment of completion. The muscles in his legs ache from enduring the bombardment of Albus' pleasure, but he wills them to relax. This was a quiet night - no interruptions, no undue force - and for a blissful moment his own euphoria envelops him like a blanket. In the hazy afterglow of what almost felt like lovemaking, he makes his usual mistake; speaking candidly.

Sometimes, by the fickle caprice of fate, his ramblings are met respectfully, even with compassion. More often than not, though, as often happens when one plays with fire, Severus gets burned.

Severus is not stupid - he has mastered many magical disciplines and has a nearly eidetic memory, yet he seems unable to keep himself from falling into this trap. The vulnerable moments after their coupling always seem like a good time to approach a sensitive topic; perhaps some part of him foolishly believes that the Headmaster is susceptible to persuasion. The Defense position, the Dursleys, the_ real _reason behind Albus' ever more frequent absences... in these moments Severus cannot suppress his hubris and his need to know. But Albus is susceptible to nothing except his own deliberate myopia, and he takes great umbrage to any insinuation to the contrary. The meaning of his words is of little consequence, but the outcome is always the same - in a flash, the safety of their shared bed evaporates and Severus is, once more, a persona non grata. The Headmaster's fiery temper and Severus' scalpel-like tongue clash like flint and steel, igniting an entirely different kind of passion.

The warmth of their intimacy is forgotten, replaced with an anger that burns like parchment, quick and blazing.

Severus curses himself even as the venom issues from his lips - Albus' rage erupts in a torrent of searingly painful truths. Like a child's block tower, Albus strips him of his dignity piece by methodical piece, until the unstable remnants come crashing to the ground. With a shout, an angry wave, or even a magical blast, the Potions Master is expelled from the asylum of his chambers. He dresses and beats a hasty retreat down the spiral staircase, unflinchingly impassive face masking the turmoil within. He walks - somewhere, anywhere - with mind and heart racing as he tries to regain his composure. It is impossible to reconcile Albus' earlier tenderness with the contempt etched in his features only a moment ago; Severus does not try.

He knows with a sage's certainty of a that Albus will take him back.

He knows that in an hour or a day or a week, the Headmaster will visit him again, this time on his own territory. He will speak in language so sweet and disarming that Severus will scarcely notice the lack of an apology or the dearth of remorse. He will subtly, inscrutably invite Severus back into his private world - afternoon tea, a walk in the Forest, a visit to Hogsmeade - and they will begin their twisted dance anew. Severus observes the patterns, but he does not change them. He does not know how. He only knows the depths of Albus' power, and his own desperate, insatiable, unspeakable need to please.


End file.
